The morning after
he took one of his cigarettes and lit it
with what might have been a pistol.
The floor had been swept
of the garbage
spilled on its cement tiles.
The sink that was piled with dishes
was clean. no remnants
jammed in the drain,
the bathroom reeked of antiseptic.
Smells like the hospital, she whispered.
He helped her lie down
and kissed her forehead,
knowing how
her eyes resembled
Quiapo stalls and sampaguitas,
memories seeping through
like her monthly stains.
He knelt beside the bed,
knowing how
Septembers might've been a baby
one that could've been theirs
screaming for milk
they could not afford,
because only
when the neighbors couldn't sleep
would they ask him, why? how?
knowing how
he would've answered,
he couldn't do everything.
He watched her sleep and
put the pistol lighter down.
After all,
he saw too much not to feel
her silent cries through the
thin blankets she clutched
like they were the walls
of her own womb.

[old poem, might polish later when I have the time]

Labels: poetry, sad